


i can live inside my head

by fillertexted



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Eating Disorders, Mental Health Issues, Nonbinary Character, Other, Pre-Relationship, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 13:36:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9183883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fillertexted/pseuds/fillertexted
Summary: This is Enjolras in all of his carefully fabricated glory; he is serious, blazing, intelligent.He is broken, vulnerable, naive.Oh, and it's his birthday.





	

**Author's Note:**

> havent written in like 4 months and when i do its a new fandom. figures. but ive been casually working on this for like 2~ months so if its unbearably choppy sorry but this isnt betad n its barely edited so uh
> 
> yeah
> 
> this is really bad and the plot is nonexistent so. idk. read at ur own risk i guess 
> 
> there is a mention of vomiting but it doesnt happen otherwise i wouldve tagged emetophobia 
> 
> also it doesnt really explicitly state it anywhere but enj is trans and r is nb thanks bye

Enjolras is a morning person. He hates it. No matter what time he falls asleep, he bolts awake at 5 AM exactly, alarm or no. He never has that fuzzy early morning memory loss, no quiet contentment as his brain slowly woke up, no half-awake thoughts in a pleasantly empty mind, no. He always snaps to being fully awake in less than five seconds, hardly stumbling when he pulls himself out of bed, the concept of extra sleep a tantalizing fantasy. Naps never worked either; he could only stay still for fifteen minutes at most, and even then it was a barely dozing state, marred by his too loud and swirling thoughts.

When he finally pulls his focus away from his finished essay, resolutely ignoring the hissing thoughts of _not good enough, it’s not good enough, keep going, you won’t be good enough if this isn’t perfect_ , his burning eyes drag to the time in the corner of the screen. 2 AM; too late to get any substantial sleep, too early to try and find something else to do. His head and eyes throb vaguely in time with his heart, causing a previously ignored headache to flare. He doesn’t exactly remember when the last time he slept was. Or when he ate last. He sighs, and stands.

Time seems to get fuzzier the longer one is awake, merely blurred moments of memory, so Enjolras hardly questions how and when he perched himself upon his kitchen counters; a thin blanket tied around his shoulders like a cape, his eyes closed with his socked feet quietly drumming a unsteady rhythm against the cabinets below, eating peanut butter straight from the jar. Besides, at least he’s eating something; he can’t recall the last time he did that.

This kitchen seems vast without the presence of sunlight. Even with the overhead lights on it feels cold, dark. Windows overlooking the city show pinpricks of light, mostly overshadowed by his own reflection. And what a reflection indeed; frizzy hair that showed the signs of him running a hand through it one too many times, massive bags under his eyes that he often joked were designer, rumpled clothes from having not changed in days, and overall tired posture. Every blink felt like a chore, yet he couldn’t close his eyes for more than a few minutes at most. He stared blankly at his reflection and tried to ignore how much he wanted to pick apart his appearance. He was normally better than this, after all.

His extremely early morning solitude is broken with a jump when a loud thump coupled by a few muffled curses drifts from the hallway leading to the bedrooms. A door clicks open a few moments later, and a paint splattered Grantaire stumbles out, dusty shadows under his eyes, a dirty mug clutched in his slightly trembling hands. He nods in a distracted nod of acknowledgment towards Enjolras, dumping out grey water and sticking the mug in the sink to refill it. The sound of flowing water breaks the silence for a moment before the mug is full again and Grantaire spins around, eyes immediately zeroing in on the jar of peanut butter and spoon in Enjolras’ hands. He raises an eyebrow, somehow conveying both approval and disappointment. Enjolras simply sticks the spoon back into his mouth, silently daring him to say something.

Eyebrow still raised, Grantaire simply salutes with his mug, sauntering back to his room and quietly closing the door. Enjolras hears the quiet squeaking of the old barstool Grantaire uses when working on canvas, something different from the others in the kitchen and one that neither of them really remember acquiring. It relaxes him, somewhat, to know someone else is still awake, a small solidarity against the oppressive darkness outside.

He looks down at the jar of peanut butter, and is suddenly overwhelmed by disgust. He quickly puts the jar down, barely screwing on the lid before dropping the spoon in the sink, needing to be as far away from the jar as possible. He heads back to his room, closing the door before starting to pace rapidly, and blanket-turned-cape fluttering behind him, socked feet not making a sound against the carpet.

It frustrated him to no end when foods suddenly became revolting, unappealing, and completely unpalatable. It was always for mundane reasons, too. Someone stole a chip from his bag. He had touched a door before eating. Someone looked at him. Enjolras wishes his brain would stop making such a fuss about absolutely nothing. It was even worse when he couldn’t eat lunch with a friend because of it, and had to make bullshit excuses for why he wasn’t eating. He rarely went out to eat, anyways. No need to worry Joly or Combeferre about something so silly.

His bed was a siren call, promising an out to his problems, and sweet, socially accepted oblivion. He normally had impeccable self-control, but even he could be worn away. He tips onto his mattress, buries his face in a pillow, and passes out.

 

-0-

 

The familiar scent of coffee greets Enjolras when he awakens again. Not even glancing at a clock to hope it’s later than 5, he simply props himself upright and takes a moment to let sleep deprivation overwhelm him. Though his thoughts are marginally clearer, they still make his head spin with the hundreds that are all trying to take center stage. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing until spots of color explode behind his eyelids. He is so tired. He had only slept for two hours. His head won’t stop yelling criticisms at him. He is _so tired._ He drops his hands, sighs, swings his legs towards the floor, and pretends everything is ok. It has to be. _He_ has to be. He shuffles his way towards the kitchen.

The sight of a dancing and singing Grantaire is grounding. It’s nice to see him effortlessly flowing from what looked like ballet to something Enjolras is _pretty_ sure needs a partner while singing the lyrics he knows and mouthing the ones he doesn’t. Grantaire had turned on their radio, some collector’s edition that looks old school. Enjolras had never really bothered looking it up. All he knows is that it has good speakers and can, apparently, play cassettes, if the small skips in the music Grantaire has playing is any indication. The peanut butter jar is gone. When Enjolras fully slinks into the kitchen, Grantaire flashes him a wide smile before turning around to twist the small volume knob.

“Good morning, did you want some coffee?”

Enjolras makes a face. He could only very rarely handle hot drinks, and today was no exception. “Unless we have any cold brew left, no.”

Grantaire makes a humming noise, walking over to the fridge to check while Enjolras slinks over to collapse on one of the barstools. He makes another hum, but it sounds more displeased, and he turns to Enjolras only with an egg carton and with a small frown. A frown that gets deeper as Grantaire takes a closer look at Enjolras, blue gaze piercing.

Having Grantaire’s full attention normally made Enjolras feel warm, either in anger or contentment, but now he just feels ashamed, pale cheeks turning pink as he lowers his gaze to the counter in front of him. He hears Grantaire sigh, and the loud crashing of pans as he pulls one out. Enjolras lazily traces shapes on the counter in front of him with a finger as he places his chin on the palm of the other hand.

He hears the clicking of gas from the stove before it lights, a soft _wumf_ sound. The pattering of footsteps and the clinking of jars as Grantaire reopens the fridge, rummaging around for a moment before it falls shut again. He hears Grantaire set whatever he picked up on to the counter. Enjolras slumps further, laying his arms on the counter in order to hide his face in them. He could only hope the silence would last. He was really not feeling conversation today.

 

-0-

 

 

Breakfast had been, mercifully, silent. He could tell Grantaire was worried, but it wasn’t anything he had to get his panties in a twist for. Enjolras has been, and always will be, fine. Many of the others would disagree, and hover over him, saying things like _when was the last time you ate?_   Or  _Have you been sleeping?_   Or _Christ, Enjolras, what have you done to yourself?_

Well. The last one had been shouted in unfavorable circumstances. _Very_ unfavorable circumstances. However, Enjolras was a master at bottling up memories and feelings he never wants to deal with, and keeps a private joke with himself about having as many finely aged bottles as Grantaire. It isn’t really that funny, if he’s being honest with himself.

He’s rarely honest with himself.

 

-0-

 

 

He’s sitting in front of his laptop, going over his essay again. It isn’t quite done, it doesn’t flow as properly as it should, and he can’t remember if using idioms in an academic paper was allowed. He’s just about to Google it as Grantaire bursts into his room, gaze locked on his phone.

Enjolras swivels around in his chair and lifts his eyes, eyebrows already quirked, but Grantaire isn’t looking at him. Instead, he’s looking at his phone, shock and confusion plain on his features. He taps rapidly, and once he’s finished he turns to Enjolras, question on his face and tension visible in the way he’s holding himself.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire begins, face slowly morphing into horror, “ _Enjolras_.”

Enjolras folds him arms close to himself warily, confused frown creeping on to his face. Grantaire calling him by his actual name was usually not a good sign. “What? What’s going on?”

Grantaire runs an agitated hand through his hair and hisses as it snags. Shaking his head, he yanks his hand out of his hair as he sends another loaded look Enjolras’ way. It makes Enjolras want to draw into himself, so he brings his arms closer, the solid pressure a small comfort.

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras, it’s your birthday! It’s your birthday and I didn’t know!” Grantaire says, gesturing with wide hands, “Why didn’t I know? We’re best friends and, if you’ve forgotten, we also fuckin’ _live_ together!”

Enjolras blinks slowly, dropping his arms slightly. “That’s it? This is just about my birthday? Christ, Grantaire, I thought someone was dying!”

Grantaire makes a wounded noise, setting a hand on his chest. “Ange, Antinous, _Apollo_ , what makes you think it’s ‘just’ your birthday? Marius just texted me about it! _Marius!_ Marius Pontmercy, infamous among our group to never remember practically anything! Am I the only one who doesn’t know? How did I not know?” At this, Grantaire inhales sharply, seemingly trying and failing to catch his breath after such a grandiose proclamation.

Enjolras drags a hand down his face as he sighs. He hates making a big deal out of his birthday. “Grantaire, in high school, we were both basically out for blood; not getting along is putting it lightly. And now, we’ve only really been friends for a year or so, and started rooming together a couple months ago. Also, we both avoid social gatherings involving too much alcohol, some of which are birthday parties. The other Amis found out years ago, but know I don’t celebrate. They keep trying to gather everyone together to do something, but it never really works out. I didn’t really see a reason to tell you, honestly.” Grantaire still looks oddly pained, so Enjolras continues, swiveling back and forth absentmindedly. “Look, truthfully? Cosette probably told Marius. God knows why he texted you about it, though.”

Cosette was often dubbed the group’s sweetest member, nearly tied with Joly. She was always willing to spare a moment of her time to help someone else, and liked to do random acts of kindness every so often. She was also scarily efficient, more on top of everything than she truly needed to be. Enjolras admires her dedication. She was also the biggest advocate to getting him a birthday party. He’s pretty sure he’s seen the date circled several times on a calendar with way too many exclamation points. He’s brought out of his musing when he notices a hurt look on Grantaire’s face.

“What?”

Grantaire’s eyes narrow, fingers deftly flipping the phone clutched in his hand. “Are you kidding me? ‘God knows why he texted you about it’? The fuck does that mean?”

Enjolras blinks as he feels a pang in his chest. He stops moving. Why is Grantaire upset? “What?”

Grantaire scrubs a hand over his face, a sharp movement. “Ok, nevermind. Just, whatever. What _ever_. Why don’t you like your birthday?”

Enjolras exhales. He really doesn’t want to talk about this. His sentence is clipped and he mentally winces. “Personal reasons.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “Personal reasons? That’s a copout and you know it, Apollo. Seriously, why don’t you like your birthday?”

Enjolras recrosses his arms, garnering little comfort. “Why do you care so much? Obviously when someone uses a ‘copout’, they don’t want to talk about it.”

Grantaire bites his lower lip and studies him for a moment. “You care so much about other peoples’ birthdays. Like, I have never been to such an extravagant B-Day bash before you. And you care so much about getting the perfect gift for your friends. It’s just. Hard to believe you care so little about yours, I guess.”

Enjolras doesn’t talk about his birthday for this reason precisely. Someone always compares it to what he’s willing to do for his friends and what he’s ‘denying’ himself. It’s bullshit. “I am able to keep two like things apart. Are you done? I have an essay to write and you’re wasting my time.”

Grantaire stares at him for a moment before nodding slowly, expression undecipherable. “Yeah. I guess I am.” With that, he turns neatly out of Enjolras’ room, gently closing the door behind him.

Enjolras doesn’t let himself dwell on that disaster of a conversation. He has things he needs to do; essays to write, letters to plan, petitions to consider. He can’t waste any more time.

He pulls up Google. Are idioms unprofessional?

 

 

-0-

 

 

He’s being, rather roughly, shaken awake. He bolts up, light headed and losing vision for a moment as he moves too quickly. He rubs his eyes before blinking owlishly at whoever woke him up from a nap he didn’t even know he had taken. Grantaire’s artfully disheveled curls hung over bright blue eyes. Eyes that were observing him with intense scrutiny. Eyes that widen as he takes a sharp breath. “Jesus, Apollo, what the fuck?”

Enjolras didn’t even know he could take a nap. The left side of his face feels both tight and irritated, and his head feels more cloudy than normal. It takes him a minute to understand what Grantaire just said, much less respond. Words were too hard. He makes his best inquisitive noise, head heavy and brain dead.

Grantaire seems to realize he isn’t going to get a better answer, and starts pacing, steps stilted and anxious. “I mean, I knew you were slipping back into old habits, but holy fucking Christ, _Enjolras_ , how do you get so bad in literal hours? Have you seen yourself recently? No, when was the last time you actually slept? Truly slept, vertical on a surface of your choice that is _soft_ , for at least five hours?”

Grantaire hasn’t stopped pacing. Now, he’s waving his hands in what Enjolras assumes is emphasis, but they were moving too fast for him to even look at Grantaire. He doesn’t seem to notice anyway. “I mean, normally, I’m all about naps, but you fell asleep on your _laptop_. You once nearly slapped me because I made a joke about putting a _sticker_ on it. I know it’s like, your property your rules kinda thing, but you are ferociously protective of it. Christ, and you’ve been working so much lately…”

Enjolras stares at Grantaire, the way his movements are fast and jerky, and feels completely out of his depth. “Grantaire, I’m fine. What are you talking about?”

Grantaire stops. “What am I talking about? Ange, do you seriously not know? Do you know what you’ve been doing lately?”

Of course he knows. He might be exhausted beyond belief and dizzy, but he is in no denial about what his activities have been. “Considering that I’m the one who was doing them, I think I have to say yes.”

“Obviously you _don’t_ , dumbass. You aren’t just being productive; you're running yourself into the ground.”

Enjolras scoffs. “No I'm not.”

Grantaire stares at him. “There was an Amis meeting tonight.”

Now it’s Enjolras’ turn to stare. “What? No there wasn’t. I would’ve been there if one was happening.”

“Enjolras, check your dates.” Grantaire’s tone is firm. Enjolras obeys.

“Oh.” Grantaire was right. It _was_ a meeting date, thirty minutes after it was scheduled to begin. Right. It had been scheduled on his birthday so Courfeyrac could try and fail to get him to drink. Enjolras feels a rushing sense of dread and panic, before it’s washed away by numbness. “Oh.”

“Get up.”

Enjolras startles. “What?”

“Up.” Grantaire holds out a hand. Enjolras takes it, and he is pulled to his feet. The lightheadedness becomes unbearable for a moment as pressure suddenly builds in his head, blood rushing wildly. He sways, and Grantaire puts an arm around him. “Whoa. Come on, we’re going to the kitchen." Grantaire takes a step forward, and Enjolras tries to copy him, but his legs collapse and he falls halfway to the floor, an ungraceful slump. Grantaire makes a soft distressed noise, and gently lowers him fully to the ground. He kneels beside him, and slides his arms under Enjolras, lifting him up bridal style. Enjolras merely hides him face in Grantaire’s shoulder. He starts to walk.

“Ok. Enjolras, when we get to the kitchen you are going to drink a Gatorade and eat some soup or something. This can’t go on. You aren’t made of marble.”

Enjolras doesn’t protest. He just fists his hands into Grantaire's soft sweater and tries to focus on anything other than his head. Grantaire is warm, and smells like a mix of paint and something spicy. It helps distract Enjolras, and a few moments later they were in the kitchen, Grantaire setting him carefully on the counter. Enjolras tucks one of his legs under himself, fingers loosely curled around the edge of the counter as he leans forward, eyes closed. The fridge is opened and closed, and something delightfully cool is pressing against his knee.

“The red one is your favorite, right? Fruit punch or whatever.”

Enjolras shrugs as he opens his eyes and clumsily paws at the bottle still held securely by Grantaire. In all honesty, he feels as though he’s going to faint. “I guess. I don’t drink it often.” He finally gets a good enough grip that Grantaire seems happy to let go, warm palm patting his knee.

“Good thing I do. Now drink it all, or I’ll get _both_ Joly and Combeferre in here, and they won’t be happy.”

Enjolras opens the bottle with shaky hands, taking a sip of Gatorade. He knows by the way Grantaire’s hand hasn’t left his knee that he’s serious. Honestly, he can’t really taste the Gatorade as he’s too busy focusing on not immediately vomiting it back up. It tastes oddly sharp and just a smidge overwhelming, but he dutifully takes another few swallows to alleviate the concerned look on Grantaire’s face. He doesn’t need to worry about Enjolras, though. He’s fine. He voices this thought.

Grantaire looks scandalized. “ _Fine?_ Enjolras, out of all the things you could’ve said right now, you choose to say ‘ _I'm fine_ ’? That is the most blatant lie that has ever come out of your mouth.” Here, he frowns at Enjolras. “Drink more. I'm going to see if we have some chicken noodle soup.”

No matter how nauseated he is, he doesn’t want to worry Grantaire anymore than he already has. Taking a deep breath, he tries to down the small bottle, which is easier said than done. He ends up needing to take several slightly painful gulps to finish it, but he manages. He still has a pressure headache, but the nauseous feeling has abated, slightly. Closing his eyes, he fiddles with the label.

Enjolras thinks they have some frozen soup curtesy of Joly. Ever since he read somewhere chicken noodle soup could actually be beneficial to healing, he made sure to give everyone a few containers. Enjolras loves him, honestly. He is such a good friend. Enjolras hears Grantaire hunt through the sad small cabinets they dub a pantry, and can imagine a small frown on his features. It’s been happening too often lately. “Didn’t we get some from Joly a few weeks ago?”

“Joly gave us soup?”

Enjolras hums. “Yeah. I guess he only mentioned it me, though.”

He hears Grantaire shuffling to the fridge. “Well, you do get sick ridiculously often. Where is your immune system?” The rustling of bags, then a soft ‘oh’ comes from Grantaire. Enjolras assumes he’s found the soup.

“Comes with the territory of rich parents. The house was always keep sparkling clean, and I was never really the type of kid to go exploring outside, anyways.” He begins to swing his knee just slightly. The dull thump of his heel against the wood is grounding.

“Really? I would’ve thought you’d be the kid on the playground who tried to break all the rules and piss off the teachers. What did you do instead?” Grantaire is trying to get the soup out of the container Joly put it in, if the sound of ineffective scraping is any indication.

“Read, mostly. Or tried to come up with stories. I was that kid who everyone knew but had no real friends, you know?” He peels the label off of the Gatorade bottle, sticking the glue to his thumb and wrapping the plastic around it.

“No shit? Even I had friends, ange.” Enjolras hears the microwave being closed, then the beeping of the timer being set.

“That’s not surprising.”

“What?”

Enjolras opens his eyes again, squinting in the lights. “You’re effortlessly talented, smart, and funny. Honestly, if we had met earlier and under better circumstances, I think we’ve been best friends. If you had even paid attention to me, that is.”

Grantaire is silent for a minute, which gives Enjolras enough time to look down at the label in his hands and regret ever being born. “I was basically a mini Combeferre. I wouldn’t blame you if you just ignored me.” Enjolras fidgets with the label, twisting it between his fingers before making a tight scroll.

Grantaire is still silent, and at this point Enjolras is trying to judge if he’s steady enough to get back to his room without Grantaire. The microwave goes off before he can test it, though. It feels like moments before a warm bowl is put next to him, and he is given a spoon. Enjolras lets go of the label and takes the spoon, before hesitating to pick up the bowl. “Can you hold it?”

Enjolras nods. He thinks he can, anyway. He doesn’t really want to look at any part of Grantaire right now.

“For the record, I would put money on us being best buds in like, elementary school. I didn’t really have set friends until middle school.”

“Joly and Bossuet?”

“Yeah. But that’s not what we’re going to be talking about.”

Enjolras stirs the soup. He doesn’t really feel like having an impromptu therapy session.

“We’ve all been concerned about you for a while now. When was the last time you slept?”

Enjolras eats a spoonful of soup.

“Last time you ate something more substantial than just soup?”

Enjolras exaggerates his next spoonful of soup. He hopes it comes out as angry, not pouty.

“How badly have you overworked yourself?”

Enjolras chances a glance at Grantaire’s face. It’s concerned. His eyes seem earnest. Enjolras doesn’t even know how he came to that conclusion. He stirs his soup again.

Grantaire sighs and rests a hand on his knee again. “Enjolras, is this getting like before?”

Enjolras is the best at avoiding subject he doesn’t want to think about. “Is what getting like before?”

Evidently, he’s not the best. Grantaire’s voice is soft. “Are you suicidal again?”

Enjolras hasn’t really thought about it. The dragging tiredness, unwillingness to do anything productive, avoiding everything. The way he eventually started sleeping constantly, missing out on friends and classes. Then the way he stopped sleeping, eating, living; the way he stopped caring.

Oh. It doesn’t quite feel like the revelation it is.

Despite him not saying a word, Grantaire seems to understand. He takes the spoon and bowl out of his limp hands and puts them down on the counter before taking Enjolras’ hands in his. Enjolras lifts his gaze from where his head is quietly categorizing the stark contrasts of their hands to Grantaire’s face. His eyes seems such much bigger than before, and a lot sadder. Enjolras’ chest clenches.

Grantaire’s voice is so soft, and warm, and it wavers only slightly. “You are loved. You are enough. You are valuable.”

Enjolras feels the hot prick of tears.

“The revolution needs its leader, but your friends need you more.”

Enjolras takes a shuddering breath, air catching on nothing. “R?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I'm fine.”

**Author's Note:**

> fuck proper grammar & punctuation mdudes!! i dont give a Shit!!! 2k17 the year of bein kind & carefree!!!
> 
> (im lying if i fucked up pls tell me i dont want to reread this)
> 
> this was mostly just to brush up on grammar and plot structure (which is still p bad lbr) and to stop running back to unhealthy habits
> 
> also im american and french schooling confuses me even though i took french for two years and had a whole unit on it so. american schooling. yeah
> 
> hmu on both my tumblrs: [fillertexted](http://fillertexted.tumblr.com) (writing n hamilton blog) or [derritaire](http://derritaire.tumblr.com) (les mis blog)


End file.
